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Havoc in Hulcrak 6
Havoc in Hulcrak 6 is an encounter in the Madness & Magma mission hub. It comes after Havoc in Hulcrak 4, Havoc in Hulcrak 5, or Insane Armsmen. Enemies *Syraxa's Warrior (1365 Gold, 168 XP, 105 Energy, 7 HP Normal, 8 HP Hard) *Syraxa's Hurler (1430 Gold, 176 XP, 110 Energy, 7 HP Normal, 8 HP Hard) *Syraxa's Rock Wall (1430 Gold, 176 XP, 110 Energy, 7 HP Normal, 8 HP Hard) *Syraxa (4290 Gold, 528 XP, 330 Energy, 1 HP All) *Locked until others are defeated.* Transcript Introduction "This is Syraxa?" you ask. "It is," Rakshara replies. You study the oroc, as she in turn scrutinizes you. A magic-user. Arcane energy dances behind her eyes, crackles at the periphery of her aura. The dark cloak which flutters from her shoulders, reaching to the back of her knees and seeming to embrace her grey body with its blackness, moves not through the agency of the surrounding air but in defiance of it. Magic squandered on petty vanity... The crimson staff she carries -- matching her body's crystals in hue -- is similar to those you've seen in the hands of other oroc shamans, but its malevolent ornateness bespeaks her power and status. Its upper end is curved, like a shepherd's crook, surmounted by sinister spikes inscribed with eldritch symbols. The headpiece which rests atop her skull is in the same shade, and likewise bears a long curving spike. It rises at least a full foot from her head, and strikes you as being more ridiculous than imposing. Arrayed on either side of her are her minions, who glare at your companions as though picking out likely victims. "My name is {name} Kasan. Now piss off before you get hurt." On your left Hugh sniggers. It occurs to you that his Titaran dialect might be rubbing off on you. Syraxa replies with a series of cracking yet not unmusical words. "She says that she refuses to speak the soft languages of the surface peoples," Rakshara says. "Though it's possible that she simply cannot understand you, and wishes to conceal her ignorance from her minions." "Very well. Translate for me." "As you wish." "My friends and I have already killed more of your minions than a petty warlord like you can afford to lose. And-" You pause, and gesture for your oroc companion to delay her translation. "I don't think 'petty warlord' is insulting enough. Is there a word which equates to 'bitch' in your language?" Her orange lips curve into a smile. "Yes, but it's the same word we use for 'female warrior' -- and isn't likely to offend her." "What's a good insult to use against an oroc woman?" Rakshara speaks a word that for some reason brings to mind an image of oozing magma. "It means 'lichen-loins'," she adds. "The expression derives from-" "I'm sure we don't need to know that," you say. "Translate this, if you'd be so good: We've killed plenty of your rabble to get here, you lichen-loined whore. But I'm a generous man, and I'll give you and the rest of you pathetic warband a chance to leave without a fight. If you're too stupid to take me up on it, we're going to kill you." Rakshara does as requested, and you infer from the narrowing of Syraxa's eyes that she's translating accurately -- if not embellishing. But after a few moments she pauses. "Singular or plural?" she asks. "What?" "At the end, when you said 'we're going to kill you'... Did you mean 'you' in the singular or plural? We have different words for each." "Oh. Plural." Rakshara finishes. Syraxa yells something that sounds like the noise of bones splintering under rock. Her minions raise their weapons. "Your diplomacy has failed," the orange oroc says. "It was worth a try." Conclusion The hooked end of the crimson staff swings at your face, sheathed in flaming scarlet energy. It crashes against your shield with a hissing eldritch fizz. Then the other end comes round, arcing up on your right, driving at your temple. You slip backwards, allowing it to pass in front of your face like a wrathful star burning its way across the heavens. Only instinct lets you weave away from the thrust which follows from the midst of that maneuver, when the same end breaks from its trajectory to lunge at your eyes. It seems that you didn't take her measure as well as you'd first thought. You'd expected torrents of spells, assaults from conjured crystal spikes... Instead you find yourself driven back by a flurry of martial skill, by blows worthy of a fighting monk that rain on you from each end of her weapon. Syraxa drops before you can counterattack, falling below your line of vision. You leap above the sweeping leg that tries to knock your ankles out from under you, and twist your body through the air to avoid the follow-up thrust from her weapon. She's good... The smile that crosses her grey face, revealing teeth the same color as your blood, shows that her own opinion of her prowess is equally high. She presses the attack as she springs back upright, her staff twirling and slashing, driving and bashing at your defenses. With each back-step you take, each moment in which you defend and dodge instead of fighting back, her furious assault quickens. Her staff is a blur, its movements so rapid that each end might be a dagger -- moving with perfect autonomy as they probe for weaknesses and bite for destruction. You learned many fighting techniques from your masters, countless modes of violent attack. But it isn't those lessons which come to mind now. It's something you learned from a man in a tavern. Another attack from the hooked end, a sweeping smash to fracture your skull. You take it on your shield and step in close. Your blade moves out to parry the other end. But your eyes fasten themselves on hers. You're not focusing on your block. It's just there to buy you time... You retch, hocking liquid into your mouth like an uncouth drunkard about to express his opinion of closing time. Your mouth tingles, pulsing with power drawn from your magical reserves. A sub-vocal spell, spoken with mind and spirit alone. Under the circumstances, it has to be... You spit. A blue blob of ensorcelled saliva shoots through the air, crackling and crystallizing as it flies, taking on an unforgiving hardness like water turning to ice before the onslaught of coldness. Syraxa's eyes widen. Then the spell-spittle strikes the right one of the pair. It doesn't splat there, doesn't merely obscure her vision and cause her discomfort. Instead she shrieks as it pierces her flesh. Her staff falls, complex patterns of violence broken in an instant. Your sword springs to life. It slides into her chest, until you feel the telltale crunch of her heart. The enemies that remain don't outlive their mistress for long. Rakshara's voice fills Hulcrak after the last of them falls. The words are unintelligible to you, but somehow you’re still swept up in their power and elegance, captivated and inspired by the cadence. Oroc eyes shine at you from every direction, embedded in faces likewise bewitched by the orange warrior's speech. It's only at the end, as she reaches her crescendo, that she utters a word you recognize. "Kasan!" she cries. "Kasan!" "Kasan!" the others echo, until the entire settlement rings with your name. *** The orocs of Hulcrak are insistent in their hospitality. Your protestations about your need to journey onwards rebound from them like pebbles tossed at their hardy bodies. In the end you acquiesce, agreeing to stay for a meal while your companions recover from the injuries and exertions they suffered during the battle. It's with some trepidation that you gaze upon the trays of colorful foodstuffs that are brought before you. Their bright hues are appetizing enough, reminding your of the candied treats you so loved as a child. But you're certain that they weren't made of rocks, crystals, and other such products likely to shred or otherwise inconvenience the human digestive system. Hugh comes to the rescue, however. He annexes every tray which approaches his vicinity, like a whirlpool drawing in drowning sailors, and uses both hands to cram sweetmeats into his maw. At one point in this gluttonous, perhaps even suicidal process he turns to you, revealing the glow of infernal energy around his teeth and tongue. It seems that Brachus has devised a way to satisfy both his host's gluttony and his own desire not to perish as a result of it. Rakshara is of aid as well. Her knowledge of oroc cuisine is rather greater than yours, and she makes a few requests to your hosts which result in more digestible consumable being brought out to you. In addition to proving non-fatal, some of these are actually rather delicious. You particularly enjoy what appear to be little sweets made of layers of pastry and honey, though you wonder where one might obtain such ingredients in this subterranean realm. The orocs wait for you to satisfy your stomach before they begin to ask questions, curious to know what's brought you to their home. When you tell them that you're traveling towards the ancient dragons' lair, their awe is almost palpable. Even here, in this little backwater settlement deep underground, people are impressed with the notion of a Kasan walking the path of his ancestor, visiting the site of one of the Dragon-Rider's greatest victories. Knowledge flows from them as well. Eager to aid you, they tell of a human cult which has recently established itself in parts of the vast cavern beyond the walls of Hulcrak. They know little of who these people are, but seem to have no high opinion of them. You're admonished to be on your guard, and be wary as you continue. The advice is perhaps superfluous, for you're accustomed to exercising caution on your travels. But it impresses itself on you nonetheless. Category:Madness & Magma